


Lackadaisy Encomberance

by CasualCosplay



Category: Lackadaisy (Webcomic)
Genre: 1920s, Blood, Cats, Fainting, Injury, Murder, Organized Crime, Prohibition, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasualCosplay/pseuds/CasualCosplay
Summary: When Mordecai is injured on assignment, Viktor brings him, covered in blood and barely conscious, back to the Lackadaisy Speakeasy where a debt is incurred that is destined to go unpaid.Set before the events of Lackadaisy.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	Lackadaisy Encomberance

**Author's Note:**

> I just hacked this out at five in the morning while bingeing Riverdale for shits and giggles, and without any editing to speak of so there is undoubtedly some weird shenanigans going on in this fic, but will I go back and fix them? No, probably not. If you haven't read Lackadaisy, I highly recommend. If you like cats, prohibition and organized crime, with a smattering of whimsical and entertaining characters, Lackadaisy is the webcomic for you.  
> Anyway, I just thought this scenario would make the events of Lackadaisy hurt that much more, so...  
> The fics I'm writing are catering to steadily more obscure fandoms.

Mordecai strolled across the room, gun hung loosely at his side, standing in an army of bodies strewn over the floor. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed the blood from his face. His lip stung, where one of the lackies they’d been sent to incapacitate had managed to get a hit in before Mordecai shot him in the head. Mordecai pressed the handkerchief to the cut, then tucked it back into his pocket.

Viktor was ahead of him, illuminated in the light of the fire at the back of the room, kneeling on the floor to check the pulse of a very limp and bloody young man.

“He’s dead,” Viktor said, glancing up. He leaped up abruptly. “Mordecai, vatch—”

Mordecai’s breath hitched as a thin, razor-sharp blade slid underneath his ribs and punched through his abdomen. Mordecai reached for the arm on the knife handle, wrenching it away and shoving the man, barely more than a boy, in range of his pistol. The knife was yanked from the wound, tearing a deeper hole in Mordecai’s side. He shot the kid once in the head and once in the heart, and he thudded to the ground with barely a whimper. Mordecai dropped his gun from numb fingers and clutched at his stomach; blood leached through his fingers.

“V-Viktor…” he gasped, vision blurring. Had he lost his glasses? No, he could feel them on his nose. He reached out, falling against Viktor who caught him, sturdy and hulking as ever, pulling Mordecai’s arm over his shoulder.

Mordecai’s knees buckled. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He was trying to keep pressure on the wound, but he barely had the strength to keep himself upright, so he settled for a loose grip around his ribs. The only thing he succeeded in was spreading more blood between his fingers. Together they stumbled away from the carnage. They were leaving a trail of blood. Mordecai wanted to implore Viktor to clean up after them, but he couldn’t make his jaw work properly and all he managed was a weak, “Viktor…” The man in question looked at him. His face was falling away from Mordecai, the ground rushing up to meet him. One arm caught Mordecai under the shoulders and the other looped under his knees. Viktor lifted Mordecai up like he was made of paper. Maybe he was. He couldn’t remember. The arm he had been dutifully keeping pressed to his side slipped down away and he couldn’t muster the strength to pull it back. His head lolled back, and his eyes drifted closed.

They were in an alley when he opened them again. Viktor set Mordecai down against a set of crates and set about pulling Mordecai’s clothes open, coat, tie, vest, then bloodied white dress shirt. He didn’t bother to unbutton it first, just ripped it open, popping off three or four buttons in the process. Lastly, he pulled up Mordecai’s ruined undershirt. Mordecai didn’t complain. Viktor worked in silence punctuated at intervals by Mordecai moaning softly. Viktor pulled a small flask of what Mordecai assumed was vodka out of his pocket, unscrewed it deftly and poured the entire thing over Mordecai’s wound. The smoldering pain in his middle swelled into a raging fireball. Mordecai gritted his teeth, trying not to swoon again. He only barely succeeded. Viktor used strips of Mordecai’s own desolated dress shirt as a makeshift bandage, using Mordecai’s tie to hold it down, then scooped Mordecai back up in his arms.

“Ve get you to Lackadaisy, vhere ve vill have doctor,” Victor muttered.

“I can walk,” said Mordecai. Victor ignored him, and deposited Mordecai in the passenger seat of their car

The distance to Lackadaisy was shorter than Mordecai remembered. Or perhaps he had lost consciousness a few times on the way. That or Viktor was ignoring traffic laws. Maybe both.

They must have looked quite a site bursting into Atlas May’s speakeasy covered in blood, Mordecai practically undressed and clinging to Viktor like he was a lifeline. The speakeasy had been closed for nearly an hour by now, but Atlas, Mitzi and several of the employees better acquainted with Atlas and his business sat around a table in the middle of the room laughing congenially and sipping from the whiskey bottle sitting in the center. The all turned when Viktor and Mordecai staggered in.

Atlas reacted the fastest, setting his whiskey down and rising briskly, composed, as if he often had his hitmen stumbling half-naked and bloody into his club. He took Mordecai’s bloody arm around his shoulders and together he and Viktor dragged Mordecai up onto the bar.

“Mitzi,” Atlas pointed vaguely at a telephone nearby, “the doctor if you would.” Mitzi wasted no time, but Mordecai couldn’t make out the words she was saying over the humming developing in his ears. His eyelids fluttered. Victor’s fingers dug into his arm. 

Atlas’ face hovered over Mordecai, swimming, fading out of focus. “Stay with us, Mordecai.” Atlas didn’t sound urgent. Just calm, and slow, and so far off. The last thing Mordecai heard was Viktor’s harsh growl, but he couldn’t make out any words.

Mordecai woke up in his own bed, vision hazy. He glanced over. There was a shadow in the corner of the room. Mordecai made for the side table, reaching for his gun, but all he managed was to jerk his arm over the side of the bed, and the figure leapt up, pushing him back into the bed. Fresh waves of pain punched through his torso, then his vision faded completely, and he was unconscious again. He woke several more times, and was met with the same blurry figure, sometimes just sitting in the corner of the room, sometimes pressing a cloth to his forehead and sometimes changing the bandages wrapped tight around his abdomen. He was never awake for long enough to make coherent conversation or figure out who it was who kept touching him.

When at last Mordecai opened his eyes and was coherent enough to sit up, he was alone. He reached for his side table for his glasses, jamming them onto his face. The stab wound in his side was still burning, but he ignored it. With the nearest bedpost, Mordecai heaved himself to his feet, panting. Slowly, he stripped off his underclothes, filthy with sweat and grime, and got into the shower, pausing every now and again to lean against the wall and catch his breath.

Careful of his stitches, Mordecai toweled himself off and dressed, underclothes, pants, shirt, tucked in, vest, tie, jacket. He grabbed his gun from the drawer in his side table and tucked it into his jacket, then he grabbed his coat, and swung it on, and pulled on his gloves.

Atlas was sitting in his desk when Mordecai came in. Mitzi was sitting on the arm of his chair, and Viktor was looming over the desk. They all turned to look when Mordecai walked in.

“Mordecai, welcome back to us. It’s good to see you on your feet,” Atlas said, standing.

“Doctor says no hard vork or you vill rip out stitches,” Victor grunted.

“Well.” Mordecai ignored Viktor. “As you can see, I am doing much better now.”

“We have Viktor to thank for that, of course.” Mordecai glanced sideways at Viktor who was glaring at him through his eyebrows. “I do believe Viktor saved your life. I’d say you owe him a great debt."

“Yes,” Mordecai said through gritted teeth. “I suppose I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos Appreciated!  
> \-- Casual Cosplay <3


End file.
